I am no longer sure if I breathe. Or if the air breathes me. A mirror cracked and bleeding starts.

Walls whisper secrets in a language I almost understand. They speak in riddles — or maybe it’s my own thoughts, splitting like broken bones.

The coat. The coat. The coat.

It hangs and waits. Or maybe I hang inside it.

I am stitched together with threads of silence, torn pages of a story I never finished writing.

—

I walk streets that fold like paper cranes, each step folding me smaller, smaller, until I am nothing but a crease between moments.

People’s faces blur. Or do I blur inside them?

Voices bleed through cracks:

“Not your story.” “You are the ghost.” “Watch, watcher, watched.”

—

A door I never saw before. I open it. Darkness smiles.

Inside, a child plays chess with shadows — the pieces are memories. Each move erases one.

—

I sit at a café. There is a man opposite me, face blank, eyes black holes.

He whispers:

“Who are you running from?”

I try to answer — words crack on my tongue. I am running from myself. Or am I chasing what I lost?

—

Time fractures.